Home
by Tom Beaumont
Summary: Chapter 4 UP NOW! Revisionism rears its head, as a definitely not-dead George O'Malley comes home to Seattle. Rated K plus.
1. The More Things Change

_**O Kind Readers:** So, before I was so rudely interrupted by whatever it was that interrupted me..._

_I hear you – the radio silence sucked. Hard. (Yep, for me, too.)_

_Writing for y'all was easily one of the most enjoyable experiences of my life, and I've genuinely missed it._

_Suffice it to say, real life is harsh sometimes, especially when you watch the time you used to have for your favorite past-times slip between your fingers, due to work and home and whatever else. But life can also be kind – incredibly kind, even. Take it from me; I've experienced some struggles over the last few fortnights, but I've had some great joys, too. Marrying my best friend in 2010 was one of those. (Her choosing to let me stay married to her is another wonderful – some might say doggone miraculous – thing.)_

_Plus, if you don't allow that urge to indulge your muse ever fully extinguish, then one day, you can find yourself daydreaming about scraps and threads you've toyed with for more than a little while, then taking to your choice of artistic instrument and picking up where you left off, surprising even yourself._

_If you can just forgive the rust, I'd appreciate it. And let me know if you like this act of revisionism; there's more where it came from...really..._

_**Tom**_

* * *

**Home**

_The More Things Change_

His mom had warned him that the hospital looked different now, but George O'Malley couldn't have imagined how true those words were until he was in the middle of it. The merger of Seattle Grace and Mercy West had caused a number of big changes, as things of that nature are apt to do. From the logos on the outside brick to the color schemes of the furnishings in the waiting room, there were almost too many alterations to count. And that didn't even take into consideration all the new faces in scrubs and white coats. Almost too many new faces, he thought.

Before taking this excursion, he had dismissed out of hand the idea that the renovations to his old stomping grounds would disturb him. Now he wasn't so sure. Sure, George had seen the pictures and videos of the new construction and renovation projects throughout the campus, and felt genuine excitement for his friends and colleagues about the progress that they were witnessing. Now, actually walking through the finished product during the hustle and bustle of an actual workday had begun to make him feel more than a bit unsettled.

No, he had nurtured the fantasy that the hospital would stand still in time just for him, anxiously awaiting his return. But that didn't mean the fantasy hadn't played occasionally in the back of his mind.

While navigating the narrowing hallways that led toward the open space near the main elevators, seeing the new paint and art on the walls, George's mind drifted to thoughts of summer vacation. For the first ten years of his life, he and his family would take an annual summertime trip to visit his dad's Aunt Jane. A day or so into the trip, when George and his brothers' cabin fever would inevitably become too much for the adults to take, they'd pack into the car and head over to an amusement park called Highland Point.

There were a couple of decently-speedy roller coasters that he was either too small or too scared to ride (neither of which his brothers would let him forget), but there was a cool-looking Ferris Wheel and bumper cars and paddle boats next to a boardwalk arcade with a bunch of not-too-heavily-rigged carnival games. It was a fun place to visit for an afternoon or two, and although the layout wasn't exactly a maze, George and his brothers pretty much knew it like it was their own backyard.

After Aunt Jane passed away, there was no need to head to that part of the country, so he didn't revisit it for another decade. Then, the summer before his third year of college, he and a couple of his buddies decided to road-trip to Highland Point, just to check it out after all these years. As soon as he stepped foot in the park, George sensed that it wasn't going to be anywhere near the same experience he'd had as a boy; in fact, the place seemed on its last shaky leg. The one roller coaster that he'd remembered always wanting to ride was falling apart, the carnival games were rinky-dink and being run by the surliest staff members, and the centerpiece of the park – the Ferris wheel – was gone, replaced by absolutely nothing. The whole place had become, as one of George's friends muttered while they drove home, "a physical representation of crushed dreams."

George had known that the experience of going to the park wasn't going to the same as it was when he was small, but he still felt the loss ring through him.

"Seattle Grace isn't the same place you remember," his mom had said, a grimness in her tone. And she was right. But as he reached the elevators, he found himself coming to another realization – it wasn't Highland Point, either.

Sure, he was dizzy from seeing all the changes, but he could tell that every last one of those changes had produced a more efficient hospital. The patient care focus was even tighter now, plus the technological leaps he saw around him clearly made the medical staff's work easier. The merger had made Seattle Grace better, period, and that delighted him no end.

The elevator doors parted in front of him and he stepped on board, feeling a smile crossing his lips as he pressed the button for the fifth floor. The doors closed tight and the elevator glided upward. As it did, the red numerals at dead center above the door ticked away a reverse countdown.

For some reason, George felt a new internal tension developing, causing his smile to evaporate. Each new floor added one more knot to his stomach, a sensation that he didn't quite understand. He wasn't here to deliver bad news or tell someone off; this was a visit to friendly territory, a trip that he'd been looking forward to making for quite some time.

So why was he getting more and more nervous?

_**To be continued...**_


	2. What I Know and What I Think I Know

**O Kind Readers:** Thank you for the warm welcome back. As I've said, writing for you is a great pleasure and one that I missed a great deal.

Some of you have asked me questions about where the story is going and how it's going to get there and who did this or that and how this or that happened. And you know what? They're fair questions to ask, especially in the world of fanfic. There's no sense in getting involved in something that ends up wandering around in circles, with no real conclusions in sight. (And I have more than my share of unfinished works on this site, much to my own dismay.)

But I've always felt that the joy of reading a good story comes in letting the storyteller do their thing, and trusting that answers will come. Those of you who know my work best know that I don't tend to plop out massive mounds of exposition like a lunch lady serving up mashed potatoes and mac and cheese, mostly because I'm not a fan of such writing. I much prefer letting a story develop on its own terms; in a way, I have it sort of guide me in the direction it wants to go - and if it wants to take a relatively roundabout route, so be it.

So, if what I submit to you doesn't satisfy you right away, I urge you to stick with me. Believe me when I say that I work very hard to respect my readers and listen to their concerns, even if the stories don't go the way they might like them to go, at least initially. (And yes, I'd say I did that even on the stories I never got around to finishing.)

I hope that as you read, you'll see the method to my madness, and I hope that this next chapter will answer a few of your more pressing questions. Trust me, there are many more answers to come.

**Home**

_What I Know and What I Think I Know_

George's nerves had finally steadied as the elevator slowed, then stopped. Somewhere between the fourth and fifth floors, he made up his mind about this whole visit to the old stomping grounds. He had a plan, one he'd considered and shaped and reconsidered and reshaped for the better part of the last year. A welcome calm bloomed inside him as he flipped some words over in his head, polishing what he wanted to say and how he was going to say it. The bell dinged as the doors whooshed apart and George stepped into the new hallway, locking down his thoughts.

As he turned left to find his destination - and trying to remember if he was actually supposed to turn right - Richard Webber appeared in the path, like he'd been transported there on a beam of light. A bright grin exploded across the older doctor's face as the two made eye contact. "O'Malley!" he said, his voice delighted.

"Chief," George replied. A plume of warmth spread through him and caused him to smile. He was genuinely glad to see his old boss still wandering the halls, wearing lab coats and scrubs and keeping his nose buried in patient charts. He stuck out a hand for the other man to shake.

Webber's eyes narrowed and he forced a stern look that couldn't quite overtake his joy. "Now, O'Malley, you know I'm not the Chief anymore," he said, trying not to chuckle as he sidled up to George and clasped hands with him.

"And I can tell that it's absolutely killing you, sir," George said, as they released their respective grips. "You look awful."

"You, too, Captain," Webber said.

"Major," George said softly, and not without a little pride.

Webber did a double-take. "Seriously?" he said.

"Yeah," George replied. "As of six weeks ago."

"Well, congratulations!" Webber's brow drooped a bit. "Or should I say something else?"

"Like?"

"I don't know. It's a promotion, right?"

"Last I heard."

"So what does it mean?"

"It means that the Medical Services Corps of the United States Army liked what I did and how I did it, and that I built up enough goodwill among the people who make such decisions that I was worthy of a promotion," George said, a bit of pride showing through. "It also means that they didn't want me to leave."

"Oh." Webber noticed the twinge of disappointment in his voice, so he wanted to pick his words carefully. Unfortunately, he said the first ones that came to mind. "You aren't re-enlisting again, are you?"

Everyone George had talked to in the last few days had asked him the same question, in one form or another. He gave Webber the best answer he had. "I don't know. There's some stuff I have to sort through first."

Webber let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Well, whatever you decide, I'm behind you." To underline his support, he put an arm around the younger man and squeezed.

"Thank you," George said. After a beat, he added, "Chief."

Webber smiled at that. "So. Does anybody else know you're here?"

"No, and I actually would like to keep it that way." George noted the older man's happier expression slipped away, so he quickly tried to salve any hurt feelings. "It's nothing personal, you know. I love seeing everybody, but today, I just wanted to say hello to Dr. Hunt, talk to him about a few things. How about I come back tomorrow? We can grab coffee in the cafeteria with whoever else happens to be around, catch up then."

"I suppose," Webber replied, unable to mask his disappointment. "I'd better get going; I'm already late for afternoon rounds."

George wanted to say something else, assure Webber somehow that he wasn't trying to brush him away. "You know what? Forget coffee. Let's have lunch tomorrow at the cafeteria. I'll find out who's on the board and who isn't and - as a bonus - I'll buy."

"Like hell you will, O'Malley," Webber said. "But lunch tomorrow does sound like a good idea."

"Good," George said. "I'll come by, say, around 11?"

"I can live with that," the older man said.

"Excellent!" George grinned and put up an open palm to wave goodbye. "See you then."

As he watched the young man walk away, Webber felt a rush of pride about all George had become. His face - the boyishly handsome one it had always been - had stayed the same, but the posture had changed. He was taller somehow, stronger.

Still, he found himself saying a silent prayer that the newly-minted Major would decide to remain a civilian for a while.

Then Webber reached into his pocket for his cell phone. He couldn't help it - he had to tell _somebody_ that George O'Malley was home.

* * *

George rapped on the glass door outside Owen Hunt's office and watched as Hunt looked up from some paperwork, then beamed and stood up, using his entire arm to wave for George to enter. "Chief of Surgery" was printed in block letters under Hunt's name on the sign next to the door and, for George, it was still a little strange to see the title associated with someone he'd known as the least likely type to ever even want to be Chief.

The office wasn't much changed from when it was Webber's, except for the pictures in the sleek bookcase behind him. There were the ones of Hunt and Cristina, and a couple of the man and his mom, plus scattered images of his military unit. And in a prominent place, an image of George in his Class A uniform shaking Hunt's hand, taken on his graduation day from basic at Fort Sam Houston.

The red-haired man broke George's reverie. "Was it ever as hot in Iraq as it was that day in Texas?" he asked, motioning for his guest to sit.

"Texas was a blast of super-chilled air, comparatively speaking," George replied dryly. "Not that I ever noticed. Or complained."

"You always were a smart fella," Hunt said, sitting down in the chair next to George instead of parking himself behind the desk again. "So how do the oak leaves feel, Major?"

George sighed. "Surprisingly heavy – and like I'm wearing them all the time."

"Meaning?"

"I'm not sure I don't want to re-enlist. The promotion came at the perfectly imperfect time, just as I was starting to think about re-entering civilian life again – and wondering how I was going to do that." George groaned a bit and rested his chin on his hands. "You know all about that, I guess. I was hoping for a bit of guidance."

Hunt took a moment to think about that, then said, "You're a free man, O'Malley, with all the perks that entails." He relaxed his back against the chair. "You probably have seen a dozen doors suddenly open in front of you, all full of opportunity you couldn't have imagined possible even in your wildest pre-med dreams."

"A dozen-dozen," George nodded. "And I'm not complaining. It's just that after almost five years of doing what I've done and helping who I've helped, part of me desperately wants to leave it behind, and part of me simply can't bear the thought of doing that."

"That doesn't make you a bad guy, you know," Hunt said softly.

"Yeah, I know," George said.

Hunt sat a little taller in the chair. "When I showed up in this hospital, I wasn't looking for a permanent position, and I certainly wasn't thinking I'd ever be handed the keys to this surgical department. Now I can't believe that I ever would have considered not taking the job that was offered to me here." He caught George's eye. "What kind of civilian offers do you have in front of you, if I might ask?"

"Well, you know about the ones to join the trauma teams at Boston General and Chicago Memorial. They've been pretty quiet over the last couple of months, mainly because I asked for time to think. But I still get a call from one chief or another once a week. Kansas City Childrens' keeps sending out feelers for their emergency department; you know how they can just pluck my heartstrings." George took a breath and let it out slowly. "And then, there's the new one and it's...well, it's..."

"It's what?"

"It's huge. Life-changing." George shook his head at that. "Like the rest of them aren't."

"So what is it?"

"There's a new hospital opening in San Diego before the end of next year. It's a $320 million project, bringing together three of the cities' providers into one entity. Built from the ground up, new equipment, facilities, campuses. I've seen the schematics and blueprints; this place is going to be amazing. And I've got a tentative offer from them to join as the new associate chief of the trauma department."

Hunt nearly exploded out of his chair. "Associate chief? That's fantastic!"

"Yeah, it is, and I'm excited for the opportunity, but – " George took a moment to find the words he'd practiced, coming up with, " – this place is my home. Before I started having second thoughts about re-upping, I had nursed this hope that I could restart my life closer to my friends and my family. Maybe that sounds selfish or stupid or both, but I'd like to come back to Seattle Grace. Or start working at Seattle Grace Mercy West, or whatever it's called now."

Hunt nodded sympathetically. "I admit that I see where you're coming from. But I don't want you to turn down potentially lucrative positions, especially considering that we don't have any positions remotely as good to offer you."

This was the moment George had been steeling himself for. "Frank McDowell's leaving for Denver Presbyterian in January," he replied.

Hunt felt a knot form in his throat. "How did you hear about that, O'Malley?"

George shrugged, a wry smile on his face. "One of my old med school classmates is on staff there. He asked if I knew who the new guy was."

Hunt suddenly felt himself backpedaling, trying to figure out how to deal with this new, cagier George O'Malley. The new Major had certainly learned a few things about the value of gathering good intelligence. "McDowell's our head of emergency medicine, not the associate head. You do realize that."

"Yes."

"You also know that we've already got two good candidates on staff and in line for consideration, and that's before the posting goes national."

"So what's one more?" George asked, his eyes sparkling. "I know I can do the job. And so do you."

For an instant, Hunt longed for the days of the more passive and pliable George O'Malley, the one who would have backed down from this kind of negotiation, smiled sheepishly and walked away. Then he felt a bit of shame about wanting that. Truth of the matter was, Army life had done George a lot of good. And it had sharpened his already top-notch skills; the reports Hunt had heard through his old military connections were all stellar. "I agree with you, O'Malley," Hunt sighed. "But whether you're up to the task or not isn't the issue. The issue is that you haven't paid your dues in this hospital, at least not recently." He hated saying it like that; it sounded harsh and unfair to his ears, maybe because it kind of was. But that didn't mean it wasn't true, and he had other surgeons, staff members and administrative people - and their associated egos - to consider.

To his benefit, George absorbed Hunt's words and nodded. "Okay, I can see that," he said with a slight frown, one that mixed disappointment with thought. After a moment of sitting in quiet contemplation, he said, "How about this? Park me in trauma - or general surgery or wherever you might need me - and let me start re-establishing myself and my reputation around here." George pushed out his breath as he looked at his friend. "I know I'm springing this on you, and I didn't want to do that, but I want my hat in the ring. I don't necessarily want preferential treatment or extra consideration – "

Hunt couldn't stifle a chuckle. "Of course not."

George sighed. "Okay, maybe I do. So what? Haven't I earned that much?"

Hunt nodded.

"I know I can be an asset to this hospital," George said, "even if I don't get the big job. Believe me when I say that I just want a shot at it."

"I appreciate that, O'Malley, believe me." Hunt stood up and wandered to the window that looked out over the expanded garden behind the hospital. "But I need to be able to justify the financials involved in bringing you back on, if only to keep the board of directors happy. The purse strings have gotten a lot tighter over the last couple of years. I don't know how to massage the numbers to make it work yet, or if it's even possible at all."

"Okay," George said. "Is that a no or a maybe or what?"

Hunt rubbed his forehead, as if he could make the answer come out faster. "It's a 'give me the night and maybe a little more,' if that's all right."

George nodded and stood up. "Yeah, it is."

Hunt turned back to face the younger man. "If it doesn't work out here, you know that I'll work the phones for you, write letters, send bribes, whatever you need."

"I know, sir," George said, unable to pretend he wasn't let down by these events. He forced a smile. "And I appreciate it."

"You'd better." Hunt couldn't help seeing the lack of light in O'Malley's eyes, and he felt a twinge of sadness in his heart. He'd only been honest about the situation; still, it bothered him a little that he couldn't just sign him to some kind of contract right now and let the next six months or so play out while adding another excellent surgeon to the hospital's staff. Hunt pushed his own disappointment down, at least for the younger man's sake. "So where's your next stop? Are you planning on visiting anyone else here?"

"Actually, no," George said softly. "I just thought I'd slip out. I promised Mom I'd be home in time for meatloaf at 6." He checked his watch. "Which I'm going to be late for if I don't get out of Dodge right away."

Hunt's eyes drifted to the interior window and a smile crawled across his face. "Uh, O'Malley?" He nodded as an indication for George to turn and look.

And there they were. Webber. Bailey. Callie. Meredith. Shepherd. All teary-eyed and smiley, gazing at him through the window like they were all having the same good dream at the same time.

"I should've guessed the Chief couldn't keep a secret," George chuckled, grabbing for his cell phone. "Hope Mom hasn't already started cooking."

_**More to come...**_


	3. Conversations at a Cafeteria Table

**Home**

_Conversations at a Cafeteria Table**  
**_

"You were avoiding us?" Bailey asked, her voice rising just as everyone at the table knew it would.

George took a deep breath as he scanned the eyes of those who had retired with him to a table in the otherwise empty hospital cafeteria. Then he closed his eyes and nodded, wincing, as she gave him a light smack to back of his close-cropped head. Laughter rose from the group as George pretended to shake out the cobwebs and rub away the sting.

"I already said I was sorry," George replied. "I just wanted to sneak in and sneak out today. I was coming back."

"Sure you were," Shepard teased.

"I was. I **_am_**." George looked over at Webber. "Lunch tomorrow at or around 11:30; the former Chief's my witness, and everyone's invited, since he's buying."

Webber nodded with straight face. "Mm-hm. Everyone okay with Ritz crackers from the second floor vending machine?"

"Whole Ritz crackers instead of saltines? Ooh-la-la, so **_faaancy_**," Callie said.

The group crackled with laughter again and George took all of it in.

"So why were trying to sneak in and out? Why not let anyone know you were coming?" Meredith asked.

George pushed out a breath. "This. Us sitting together and letting our coffees get cold while we talk." He gestured at the small stack of pictures that had been passed around – Callie's daughter sleeping on a snoozing Arizona's shoulder, Meredith and Shepard's little one pushing fistfuls of birthday cake into her mouth, and Bailey's boy Tucker with a great, silly grin plastered across his mug on his first day of school – which had finally ended up in the middle of the table. "As much as I love doing this – and I do – I didn't want to interrupt anybody's day. Except for Dr. Hunt's, of course," he said, testing the words to make sure they sounded true.

They did, and they were, mostly. It warmed his heart significantly just seeing these people, but he had genuinely wanted to avoid them today. There wasn't any malice in it; he just hadn't want to lose focus on his visit's actual purpose, and he feared spending too much time with his closest friends would cause him to do just that.

But now he was glad they had appeared. Instead of blurring his reasoning for wanting to work in this hospital, they clarified it, and further convinced him that coming back to Seattle Grace would be the best thing for his career.

He briefly considered coming clean to his assembled friends, talking about his hope of returning to the staff, or his conversation about it with Hunt. But he decided against it.

Meredith seemed to sense his thought process. "C'mon, George," she said, leaning forward. "What gives?" Her eyes narrowed. "Is this about you-know-who?"

"You-know-who?" Bailey asked. "Who's you-know-who?"

"No," George groaned. "And I don't want to talk about you-know-who."

"Guys?" Callie interjected. "Could we dispense with the vagaries? I need names to take home to Arizona, in case she decides to ask me why I'm late for dinner."

George frowned. "Dr. Michelle Thorne. Neurologist. From Toronto. Dark hair, dark eyes. Cool head, great sense of humor, smart as hell."

Shepard nodded. "I've read a couple of studies she's been part of. Smart as hell is an understatement." He raised his cup to George. "I'd been meaning to congratulate you."

"Thanks, but – " George offered a sad wisp of a smile. "She and I – we burned out."

Both Meredith and Shepard whitened with embarrassment. "I'm so sorry," Meredith said. "I didn't mean to – I mean, you hadn't talked about her in a while, but I – I didn't think – "

George shrugged. "It's okay. We realized that the only reason we were together was because we were both alone and far from home. I needed someone to hold on to, and so did she. And that's not how to build a good relationship."

"No, it isn't," Callie said. "But I'm still sorry to hear about your break-up, even though you didn't tell me about it, which does kinda-sorta tick me off," she added, giving him her best crazy-eyed glare.

"Thanks," George replied, mirroring her gaze. He dropped the expression after a beat for something more genuine. "I'm glad the Chief called you guys."

Bailey – who had parked herself on his right hip from the moment he walked out of Hunt's office – squeezed his hand in hers.

The assembled group dwindled rather quickly after that. Callie's phone had already sounded off a couple of times; the third alert was the one that finally tore her away, but not before she pressed a kiss on George's cheek and breathed in his ear that she was glad he was home. Meredith and Shepard were the next to go – they had to relieve the babysitter – and just as they departed, they secured his acceptance of a dinner at their house sometime soon. Webber reconfirmed lunch with George before he headed off to parts unknown to finish up some reports, and that left George and Bailey alone at the table.

"So," she said. "You wanna tell me what's going on?"

"Sorry?" he asked.

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "I've known you for a long time, George O'Malley. I've seen your ups and downs, your best and worst. And I can tell when you're holding something back." She gritted her teeth. "Have you decided to re-enlist? Is that it?"

George laughed out loud at that. "What?"

His response drew an icy glare from Bailey. "Don't laugh at me."

George's face fell. "I'm not laughing at you. I swear."

Bailey held her glare at him. "I'm someone who worried – no, **_worries_**, present tense – about you every day. Tucker calls you Uncle George and hugs your picture every night before he goes to bed. You are important to him – to us – and we've been waiting for you to finally come back home safe and sound and for good, so if you are even considering going back – "

"I'm not," George said softly.

As his quiet statement sunk in, Bailey's expression softened. "Good. I'm glad."

George sighed a bit. "I can't lie, I was thinking about it – seriously thinking about it – but after spending time with people here today, with my friends, I won't do it. I need to be a civilian again."

Bailey's eyes lit up. "That's why you came here, isn't it? Why you spoke to Hunt?"

George thought about denying everything, but decided against lying to someone who not only would instantly see through it, but be hurt and angry at his attempt at deception. So he nodded furtively and said, "I didn't want to say anything about it. And it can't go any further than between us."

A sparkle radiated from her now. "You made your pitch then? For the Emergency job?"

Of course she remembered him talking about it, he thought. She could've been blamed for putting the thought in his head 18 months before. "Yeah, I did. But the odds are so against me even getting a regular surgery slot here again, it's not even funny." George rubbed his temples. "I mean, forget about being a department head or even an associate head, I don't know if there's room for me in any part of Seattle Grace, or whatever it's called now."

"It's a one-in-a-million shot, that's true," Bailey said. "But it's a zero-in-a-million shot if you don't try."

"You're right."

"Better believe I am." Bailey closed her eyes and started stretching. "I need to head home, get some dinner. You want to come along? Tuck would be thrilled."

George checked his watch. "I would, but I promised my mom I'd be home, like, two hours ago. She's already none-too-thrilled with me."

"Then that's the direction you need to go." Bailey stood up.

He rose to his feet too. "Can you make it to lunch tomorrow?"

"It'll have to be a quick appearance, but yeah, I'll be there." She put her arms around him and hugged him close. "Promise to come by and see us soon?"

"Of course," George said. "I've got that visit planned out." He felt a wave of emotion roll through them both as he returned the familial embrace. "Thanks. For everything."

"You're welcome," she said softly, and gripped him just a bit tighter.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Never better," she replied.

_**To be continued...**_


	4. Through Those Open Doors

**Home**

_Through Those Open Doors_**  
**

It was ten minutes to nine when George found his mom's unlocked front door. He pushed down on the curved door handle and made his way inside. His nostrils caught the rich, mixed scents of all the foods that his mom had prepared for dinner, which made his stomach rumble. That was another thing he'd been missing for quite a while - Louise O'Malley's cooking skills.

His jacket pocket buzzed. George stuck his hand in and pulled out his glowing cell phone. "MICHELLE," the screen read.

For the third time today.

He blew a breath out through his teeth, tapped the red "IGNORE" key, and watched the screen go black again. Then he shed his jacket, dropped the phone back into the pocket, and tossed the garment on the couch before wandering into the kitchen, letting his nose lead him. The table was cleared, except for the fresh white cotton cloth that covered it.

"Georgie?" he heard his mom ask from a distance.

"Yeah, Mom, it's me," he replied.

"Finally," she said.

"I said I was sorry when I called. You know those old co-workers of mine; they wouldn't let me get away."

"I'm just pulling your leg," she responded with a hint of scold, appearing in the doorway, dressed in pajama pants and an old Seattle Seahawks T-shirt that he recognized as once belonging to his dad. "I kept a plate for you in the microwave, if you're still hungry."

"Thanks," he replied. He stepped to the over-the-range microwave and tapped a couple of buttons, bringing the machine came to life. He smiled a bit, then grabbed one of the dinner rolls on the countertop and took a bite. The yeasty, buttery taste of the fresh bread made his smile grow. "God, that's good," he sighed.  
Louise knew that expression; she'd seen it on his father's face almost nightly for as long as they were married. "You didn't eat? I would have thought that somebody would have ponied up to feed you."

"Dr. Bailey offered to take me home for dinner. I turned her down." George swallowed the last of his bread. "I wasn't kidding this morning when I said your meatloaf sounded good. Now it also smells good." He looked up at the still-glowing microwave. Three and a half minutes rarely felt so long. "Besides, I wanted to eat with you."

She was touched by the words and crossed the room to hug him. "Thank you, sweetheart," she said.

"You're welcome," he replied, relishing the embrace.

She rested her head on his shoulder. "Ronnie and Jerry said they were planning on coming by for dinner tomorrow. You'll be here on time for pork chop night, I hope."

"Of course," George said. "I don't really have anywhere else to be right now." As soon as the words passed his lips, he wanted to take them back. She'd been so excited about his endeavor that he really hadn't wanted to watch her heart break if he'd had bad news to deliver.

But that ship had sailed.

Louise couldn't hide her disappointment. "Doctor Hunt said no?"

George tried to find a way to spin the news in a positive way without getting her hopes up too much. "Not quite. He said he needed time to go over things. It's a budget issue, I think. Finding the time and space and money."

"Boy, things have changed over there," his mom said with a frown. "When you were first at Seattle Grace, didn't it seem like they couldn't stop hiring doctors?"

"I understand, though," George said as the microwave finished its cycle with a ding. He opened the door and gingerly removed the heated plate. "The economy didn't help the hospital, especially when they'd committed to a merger and new construction and whatever else."

"Still, Georgie, you deserve some consideration after all you've done, and with the offers you've got in front of you, they should be begging you to work there."

George didn't disagree, but wanted to keep her from getting wound up over something neither of them could control. "No one's saying that they won't be doing just that, but I have to wait and see what happens."

"Okay," she said. "If you can be patient, so can I."

"Thanks, Mom," he replied. "And thanks again for dinner. I'm really sorry I got home so late."

"Forget it, kiddo." Louise shuffled her feet. "Did you - uh - talk to Michelle?"

George groaned. "Mom..."

"She called here, said she wanted to talk to you and you weren't answering your phone."

"How many times do I have to say this?" he said, shaking his head in frustration. He turned his attention to the microwave. "It wasn't working, Mom. It wasn't. I knew it, she knew it - "

"Did she?" she replied sharply, raising her voice. "What did Michelle know, exactly?"

George felt heat build behind his eyes. He set his jaw and hissed, "That's not fair."

Louise's head dropped a bit. "I don't want to fight about this," she said softly.

George finally turned to face his mother. "So why even bring it up?"

"Because I don't think Michelle wants to fight either," Louise said, suddenly realizing that she was holding her breath. She let it out slowly and took another before she added, "In the year that you two were seeing each other, she and I - we talked more than a few times. And even when things were scary or sad around her - around both of you - I've never heard her sound scared or sad, Georgie. Not until today."

A son's eyes met his mother's. George felt her emotion pour into him through that connection and his heart softened. "Fine," he sighed. "If she calls, I'll talk to her."

"And if she doesn't?"

George grimaced, like he was tasting something sour. "And if she doesn't, I'll call her." He gave her a slightly stern look. "But I'm not doing it for her, understand?"

The corners of Louise's mouth turned upward into a sad smile. "I know. But thank you anyway."

On cue, the microwave dinged. "Saved by the bell," George said quietly, opening the door and reaching for the plate, which was burning hot to the touch. "Ah!" he cried.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," George replied, flicking his hand through the air before grabbing a potholder that was laying on the counter. "Can't believe this old microwave still works so well."

"Yeah, well, your dad cared about quality," Louise replied. "Not as much as he cared about us, of course, but..."

George could see tears forming in her eyes, so he opened his arms for her, and she accepted his embrace. "I miss him, too, Mom," he said.

She sniffled a bit as they hugged, then pulled away, wiping her eyes and yawning. "It's about that time for me. Just leave your dishes in the sink and I'll take care of them in the morning."

"Sure thing," he said firmly. "'Night, Mom."

"Good night," she replied, shuffling away.

George watched her disappear around a corner and listened to the stairs creak as she walked up to the second floor. Then he blew out a breath. Agreeing to talk to Michelle again had not been anywhere near his immediate plans - or his distant ones. But his mom's words about Michelle sounding scared and sad had gotten through. So, yes, he would talk to her. And yes, if she didn't call him, he'd call her.

His stomach groaned at him, reminding him that he didn't have any calls to make right now. George opened the silverware drawer and found a set of utensils. Then it was over to the fridge for a glass of ice water from the pitcher. He finally relaxed into a chair at the kitchen table and looked at his plate. The rumbles in his stomach grew louder. "Easy, fella," he said softly. "You're about to be happy again."

As he speared a forkful of perfectly prepared meatloaf and gravy, and was mere moment away from letting the joy of his mom's home cooking spread through him, he heard knocks on the front door. There were three of them, in steady succession, and they pulled George and his protesting stomach away from the table.

At first, he considered that they could belong to one or the other of his brothers, but those two didn't tend to knock on the front door of this particular house unless the door was locked, and when they did, they used their fists, so the raps were hard, like they were trying to beat the door into submission. These knocks were soft, like the person on the other side hadn't quite decided if he or she wanted anyone to know that they'd actually been there.

George wasn't rushing to the door; his rumbling belly was slowing his steps now, filling him with the urge to ignore the intruder standing between him and his dinner. But he knew he'd get there soon enough, and once he answered the door, he'd be a lot closer to finally satisfying the hunger that was crawling through him.

As he reached the foyer, he could see the barest outline of a person through the translucent glass bricks around the door, and he or she was patiently standing under the porch light. George wondered if it was a neighbor coming by to check on his mom; since she'd had surgery recently, a number of ladies from the church had come by to see how she was "pretty much nightly," his mom had said. This must be one of those visits, he decided.

He heard his phone buzz again, just as his stomach loudly repeated its complaint. "Settle down," he muttered. "I just have to take a look." He grabbed his jacket and found the phone. "MICHELLE," it read for the fourth time. Fine, he decided. You want to talk, I'll talk. I just hope you don't mind me talking with my mouth full.

George pushed "ACCEPT" and put the phone to his ear. "Hello," he said, as his other hand found the door handle.

And then, right in front of his eyes, there was Izzie, standing on the front stoop. The soft warmth of the porch light spilled over her, making her skin and hair simply glow. She smiled that smile at him, the one that seemed to come from deep inside her, the one that radiated from every nerve and fiber, the one dazzled him and dazed him and made him feel like he was flying.

"It's true," she said. "You're home."

His stomach had forgotten about food. His head had forgotten about Michelle. George's heart had seemed to overtake every part of him. He wanted to speak, but words just wouldn't come.

The silence was deafening. "Aren't you going to say something?" she asked.

Finally, George stepped onto the concrete slab, and put his arms around her.

As he held Izzie in his arms, secure in the comfort of their mutual embrace, he heard Michelle's voice come through the phone: "George? Are you there?"

_**To be continued...**_


	5. The Kitchen Debate

_**O Kind Readers: **_**Mea culpa**. _The real world (and no, not "The Real World" - or any other MTV variant) has been intruding on my spare writing time, as it has wont to do when I think I've collected enough free-range minutes. I hope you will find that this chapter has been worth the 2-months-plus wait._

_I'm genuinely glad people are enjoying the work I'm doing; thanks to everyone for the hits and reviews. Please keep the good wishes and energy coming - and if you know somebody who is still looking for a fair-to-middlin' "George was never thrown under a bus" story and hasn't read this one, you have my permission to steer them towards this one, as if you needed such a courtesy from me (and, of course, you don't and never will)._

_**Fair warning:** Those of you Kind Readers who are looking for things to get - ahem - saucy, well, you'll want to stay tuned ..._

_It's not happening in this chapter, but I'll keep you posted on the whens and wheres. _

_Gotta keep some things for later, y' know. But feel free to anticipate and whatnot (like you needed that courtesy from me, either)._

* * *

**Home**

_The Kitchen Debate_

Michelle's "hellos" over the phone somehow grabbed George's attention again, and he lifted it back to his ear. "Yeah, I'm here," he said. "Someone was at the door."

Izzie feigned a frown at him. "Someone?" she mouthed.

He gave her a slight headshake and tilted his head at the phone. Not now, the move seemed to say.

She put up her hands and gave a swift, understanding nod of compliance, and allowed him to lead her into the house.

"Michelle?" George asked, suddenly realizing that he was speaking into a void.

He glanced at the now-dark display. Maybe she'd given up on him – or at least resigned herself to let him go for tonight. He felt a hollow pinpoint form in the pit of his stomach, like he knew he'd done something only vaguely wrong, but it had been wrong nonetheless.

"You okay?" he heard Izzie ask.

"Sure," he replied, watching her wander past him into the kitchen. As she passed, he caught the briefest breath of the scent of her hair, and he allowed himself to stand where he was and take it in. So many months apart, so many turns and twists in their roads, yet the slightest things about her maintained their hold on him.

George's mind was replaying the night they first met – at that hospital mixer, where he first encountered that scent and that smile and that spark – when Izzie reappeared, taking a bite of a split and buttered roll. She offered him a pleased smile, then started back to the couch, unbuttoning her jacket as she walked. As she doffed the garment and tossed it on top of hers, he noticed that soft pink sweater she'd chosen to wear. It was his very favorite thing of hers, and she knew it.

"Meatloaf, gravy, homemade bread," Izzie said. "I knew something smelled delightful in here. Mama O'Malley cooked up a storm for her lucky soldier boy, huh?"

"Yep," George said, pulling himself into the now, and heading for the kitchen table. "And my plate's ice cold again, I'll bet."

"Nah, that microwave your dad put in all those years ago operates on the only chunk of the sun that ever existed on Earth." Izzie popped the last bite of bread into her mouth as she trailed behind him. "So, Michelle, huh?"

"I promised Mom, okay?" George said. "She needed to talk to me."

"Told you so," Izzie said.

George groaned a little. As awkward as the subject of an ex-girlfriend was with his mother, it took on a different dimension when he had to address it with Izzie. Finally he said, "Michelle and I – we were ... well, we were. But not anymore. And that's it. End of story, period, paragraph, close the book and put it on the shelf."

"I know that. And you know that. But are you sure Michelle knows that?"

"She's the one that brought it up. She was the first to know." George flopped down onto a kitchen chair. "How many times do I have to say that what Michelle and I had was more about the fact that she was scared and lonely and in the middle of nowhere and I was scared and lonely and in the middle of nowhere, and a lot less to do with love?"

"At least one more time," Izzie replied, sinking her fingers into the pockets of her blue jeans. "And slower, maybe."

George dug into the meatloaf again. He lifted the fork to his lips, but just before he could take a bite, he heard a little whimper. His eyes narrowed as he looked over at his guest.

"That really looks good," Izzie said, her eyes on the food.

"Sure does," George replied.

"Know what I had for dinner on the plane?" she asked.

George's stomach was about to stalk off and leave him. "Chilean sea bass, grilled asparagus and rice pilaf," he guessed.

"Close." Izzie's voice dropped a bit. "A bag of caramel Bugles."

"A whole bag?" he asked, not wanting to play along, but unable to avoid it.

"A tiny whole bag." She illustrated the pathetic size with her fingers. "Five hours ago. From an airport kiosk that was closing and had, like, zero other selections."

George groaned and pushed the plate toward her. "Emotional blackmail, that's what this is called," he said.

"No," Izzie said. "This is more like extortion."

Then he watched her face find a sly, teasing grin. "I'm betting that there's more in the fridge," she said. "I'll make my own plate, if you don't mind." Izzie then made herself busy opening the refrigerator and taking out dishes of cold food.

George started to eat – finally – but it wasn't long until he found himself less interested in his mom's cooking than watching Izzie glide across the floor before him. It made him think about the last time he'd seen her: more than a year ago, when he'd visited her in Portland. He'd gone into that night's visit with perfectly innocent intentions – just one old friend having a late dinner with another – but by the time the evening was over, so was the innocence of the get-together.

She stopped dead where she was standing and shot a look at him. "So how's dinner?" she asked.

"Better than I hoped it would be," he replied, smiling.

Once they had finished eating, Izzie grabbed the dirty plates and utensils and took them to the sink. She filled the basin with hot, soapy water and started in on the dishes, while George lifted the tablecloth and took it to a basket in the laundry room. He returned quickly, pausing for a moment at a kitchen linen cabinet to find a replacement cloth. He shook the fabric to spread it over the tabletop, then tugged on one corner or another to straighten it.

"Very nice," Izzie said, gently setting clean and still-wet dishes into the drainer.

"Neatness counts," George said. "Whether in surgery or the Army or at Mom's house." He meandered toward the counter next to the sink, next to her, and was getting ready to find an excuse to sidle up to her just as his phone came to life again. He sighed at the ring.

"It's okay," Izzie said softly. Her tone echoed his internal disappointment. "I'll wait for you."

She grabbed a dish towel and started drying her hands while exiting the kitchen, leaving him alone to answer the call. He hated watching her go; right now, all he wanted was to walk step-for-step with her. But a promise was a promise, so Michelle was getting his attention right now, while Izzie disappeared from sight.

"Hello," he said, trying not to sound curt, and not doing so well.

"Hey, George," Michelle replied. "I'm sorry about calling so late," she said slowly, "and for calling so often."

"And for calling my mom?" George growled.

"That too," Michelle said contritely.

The quietness of her tone made his breath catch in his throat. Michelle usually had a gregariousness when she spoke, an obvious confidence that came from an innate trust in herself and a command of her surroundings. Now she sounded unsteady, like she was tottering on a ledge. Sad and scared, his mom had said, and she was right. So George let a smile trickle into his voice. "So what's up?"

"I just – just tell me you're okay."

"Yep," he said warmly. "Still breathing, heart's still beating, haven't even had a paper cut or jabbed myself with a ball point pen, as unusual as that might sound."

Michelle audibly sighed. "I can't tell you how glad I am to hear that. I mean, seriously. I've had this awful sensation hit me more than once over the past few days, this cold and dark and horrible belief that something really bad had happened to you."

"That's sounds awful," George said.

"Tell me about it," Michelle said. "Having intensely gory flashes in front of your eyes every few hours about somebody you care about is not fun."

"I can believe that," he replied.

"And the worst part is how real they felt. I had a couple that made me almost jump out of my skin."

"Are you okay now?"

"I think so. I mean, you and I both know the depths my imagination likes to plumb."

"Yeah."

"And thanks to a very pricey education, I know all the nuts and bolts about what my brain and nerves were up to and how and why it was happening at one time or another, so at least I could talk myself through the cold sweats, which helped a little. But if I'm being 100 percent honest, nothing could be better for me than actually hearing your voice, George."

"I'm glad I could be of assistance," he said.

"Me too," she replied. "I guess I ... " Her voice trailed off.

"What?"

"Nothing. I'm – I'm probably just extra tired. I've been splitting my time between surgeries and working on a new concussion study with a couple of doctors from the States and there aren't enough hours in the day for work and food and sleep."

"That could definitely be it," George said. "These nasty visions weren't hitting you when you were in the O.R. or with your patients, I hope."

"No, thank God," Michelle said. "They stayed at the sliding doors of my apartment building and waited for me. I'm tempted to sleep in my office tonight, just in case."

"That sucks."

"Yeah, kind of. But I do have a pretty nice couch in here."

George chuckled at that, and found himself relieved that she was making jokes. "You can't stay there forever. Know that I'm holding a good thought for you; maybe they'll have hit the trail before you get home."

"Thanks, George." Michelle was quiet for a moment. "I know it's late, so I'm going to let you go, but ... would you mind if I called you again sometime? Soon, maybe?"

"Yeah, okay," George replied. "Just promise that you won't freak out if I don't answer right away."

"Fair enough," she said with a soft laugh. It was the most relaxed she'd sounded the entire call. "I can't tell you how glad I am to hear your voice."

"Thank you," he replied. "Now go home and get some sleep. Doctor's orders."

"I'll do it, I promise. Good night, George," she said.

"Good night, Michelle," he replied, ending the call. He stared at the phone for a moment and exhaled, hoping that her night would be calm and restful, and feeling like more than a bit of a jackass for not talking to her earlier.

He pocketed his phone and headed back into the living room, hoping to find Izzie sitting on the couch. Maybe she'd still be in the mood to talk – or whatever.

No luck. While her coat was still there, she was nowhere to be seen.

He picked up the coat and started wandering around the lower floor of the house, knocking on the bathroom door, looking inside his dad's now-untouched den, even taking a cursory glance into the kitchen. She wouldn't have just left, he thought.

He started climbing the stairs to the second floor, and on a hunch, checked his bedroom.

There she was, flat on her back, eyes closed, sprawled across his sheets. That pink sweater was riding up on her belly, exposing soft skin that glowed in the dimly golden light of his bedside lamp. Almost on cue, she mumbled something in her sleep and rolled onto her side, curling her body into a fetal position.

George smiled as a wave of pure affection rolled through him. He stepped softly toward the bed, finding a thin quilt to drape over her without disturbing her slumber.

As he covered Izzie's frame, he heard her whisper, "Good night, George."

"Good night," he replied. And then, without even thinking about it, he leaned down to gently kiss her cheek.

At that, a tiny smile passed across her lips as she continued to sleep. It was a half-a-heartbeat in length; if he would have blinked, he might have missed it.

So it didn't hurt that George O'Malley couldn't help but keep his eyes wide open when he was alone with Izzie Stevens.

_**To be continued ...**_


End file.
